Page 124 of Knotting the Cowboys

"But that's just wishful thinking, right? I mean, you're probably all proper and gentlemanly under that cowboy?—"

"The difference between me and the rest of the pack," he interrupts, cupping my face with both hands now, thumbs stroking over my cheekbones with reverent pressure, "is that I act first and think later when it comes to what I want in life."

A shudder ripples through him, the last filter of restraint flickering out in the hazard-glow.

His eyes—warm, usually so gentle—go predatory, ancient, like some wild urge has clawed up through his chest and demanded to be released. I don't move, don't even breathe, transfixed by the way he searches my face for a hint of doubt, some excuse to stop, but finds none.

Austin’s jaw works, a muscle ticking as he swallows the words trying to leap out.

His hands, which still cup my cheeks like I’m the most breakable thing on earth, flex ever so slightly, as if torn between reverence and raw possession. When he speaks, his voice is a low growl, rough with everything he's been holding back:

"And right now, all I give a shit about is you, Willa."

The name lands between us like a trigger, and something flicks awake in my bones.

There is nothing tentative about what happens next.

We know what’s gonna happen…

Which is why I let it.

He surges forward and every inch of him goes taut as a bowstring. His fingers tangle in my hair, and the gentleness from earlier is gone—he’s kissing me like he’s starved for it, like he’s been watching me across a lifetime of unmet wants and finally, finally, it’s okay to be greedy.

I taste him first—clean, dizzyingly fresh, like first rain on hot dust—and then myself, sharp and metallic from my own bitten lip. We’re devouring, not just kissing.

Austin backs me into the truck door, and the cold metal bites through my dress, warning me I should be careful, but I couldn't care less. He brackets my hips in his hands, not just holding but anchoring me, and his mouth moves from my lips down my jaw to the hollow under my ear.

I don’t even recognize the sound that comes out of me—something between a gasp and a whimper, so high-strung I half expect the stars to shatter.

He breaks away just long enough to inhale, and his forehead presses hard to mine.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he rasps, voice already wrecked, "because I might not have it in me otherwise."

I’m trembling so hard my knees threaten to collapse, but it’s not fear—it’s relief. The giddy, sick relief of letting go, for once, after years of hoarding every ounce of desire and hiding it under armor. I answer him by grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and hauling him back, sealing my mouth to his with a hunger I didn’t know I had the capacity for.

Everything blurs—sound, time, the boundary between need and want. My hands roam his chest, sliding under the hem of his t-shirt to find skin, and he shudders at the contact, breaking away just enough to look at me, really look, as if branding the moment into memory.

And then he’s on me again, lips crashing into mine with that same desperate urgency, and it’s all teeth and tongue and the taste of hope after a drought.

His mouth crashes into mine with a desperation that steals my breath.

This isn't the gentle kiss from earlier at the festival—this is wildfire, consuming and uncontrolled. His lips are demanding, tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that makes my knees weak.

I moan into his mouth, hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer, and he growls—actually growls—before spinning me around to press my back against the truck.

The cold metal through my thin dress makes me gasp, but then his body cages mine, all heat and hard muscle, and I forget about temperature. His hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair extensions, gripping my waist, sliding down to cup my ass through the silk. Each touch leaves trails of fire, and I arch against him, desperate for more contact.

"Fuck," he tears his mouth away to trail biting kisses down my throat. "Do you have any idea what you do to me? How crazy I've been going?"

I can't form words, too lost in the sensation of his teeth grazing my pulse point, his hands getting bolder. One slides up my thigh, pushing the dress higher, and I shamelessly spread my legs wider to give him access.

"Waiting for those blockers to work," he continues, voice muffled against my collarbone, "has been the longest two days of my fucking life. Watching you walk around the ranch in those little shorts, seeing you gentle the horses, smelling you everywhere but not being able to touch..."

His hand reaches the apex of my thighs, finding me embarrassingly wet through the thin panties, and we both groan.

"But tonight," he lifts his head to look at me, eyes wild, "watching you dance like that, seeing every man in that place want what's mine?—"

"Yours?" I challenge breathlessly, even as my hips cant against his exploring fingers.

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